Is that really such a surprise?
by fleetwood-mouse
Summary: It certainly doesn't explain why Sherlock is glaring down at Molly like he cannot fathom such a level of stupidity, but then, in the same way that the average person might say that the sky is blue or the grass is green (or that the earth goes round the sun), Sherlock says, "But I'm going to do John's autopsy."


In retrospect, John really should have seen it coming, knowing Sherlock as he does, having lived with him for so long. Sometimes, John just starts to feel he knows him inside and out. But this is Sherlock Holmes, after all, and so when it does happen, John is just as blindsided as Anderson.

This particular crime scene is actually quite bloody, one of the worst they've had so far. And yes, John has seen things – on the battlefields of Afghanistan and also on those of London – but some sights are just truly terrible. They've had to call Molly out to the scene because no one is confident that the body will make it back to St. Bart's in large enough pieces for any kind of post-mortem.

The case itself is actually rather cut and dry, apparently; a five at the very highest. Sherlock tells John on the way there that he had it mostly solved by the end of the phone call but decided to come have a look because he's never had an axe murderer before. "A real axe murderer, John," he exclaims, striking his palms against his thighs, eyes alight and flashing in the back seat of the cab.

He's even more animated when they arrive at the scene, light on his feet, darting from one point to the next, muttering to himself. "Brilliant," he murmurs, blue eyes inches from those of the corpse as he inspects the angle at which the neck dangles from what remains of the shoulders. "Grotesque. Incredible. I never would have..."

John stands to the side and drinks coffee from a paper cup, chatting with the Yarders. He knows there are no deductions to be made, no rings of logic to be walked through; all of this is for the Mind Palace. He hopes no one else has realized as much, though it does look like Lestrade might suspect. But that's all right; Lestrade knows the potential future value of letting Sherlock collect this information and is willing to wait for his answer. Just as long as Donovan stays distracted enough to think that Sherlock is only getting off on his work as usual and doesn't realize that this is almost entirely recreational, John will consider his job done.

To John's relief, Sherlock finishes rather quickly and lets Molly get started with the body. He is soon absorbed by whatever it is he's looking up on his phone, oblivious to everyone around him. But after a few short minutes, he's started blabbering to Lestrade about how the axe has to have been purchased in Dorset and how it was swung by a construction worker who has gout and it all had to do with debt, probably gambling, which means that there could be others in the same financial straits who are going to start turning up just like this. And he's not even trying to contain his excitement at this prospect, of course.

Lestrade takes down the notes dutifully, nodding his head with the cap of the pen snug between his teeth. When Sherlock finishes, Lestrade says his thanks and tells him to leave the rest up to them now, he means it. He points a finger at John and says, "Don't let him go running off and dragging you into anything like this, you hear me."

"Really, John, please don't," adds Molly, sitting back on her heels and brushing the dirt off her knees. "I don't want to be doing this for you tomorrow."

Though Molly means well (she always does), this comment is another that she would have done well to think over a bit first. That's normal enough for her, however, and it certainly doesn't explain why Sherlock is glaring down at her like he cannot fathom such a level of stupidity (which is, to be honest, normal enough for him, too). And then, in the same way that the average person might say that the sky is blue or the grass is green (or that the earth goes round the sun, for that matter), Sherlock says, "But _I'm_ going to do John's autopsy."

There is no note of the petulant child he must once have been; he is simply repeating a fact – a fact of which everyone ought to be aware, either because it is blindingly obvious or because they've bloody voted on it already.

For one long moment, everyone is strangely, uncomfortably quiet. John blinks and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but the words still hang there in the silence, refusing to be erased. Molly is staring intently down at the body with one hand clasped over her mouth.

"Fucking psycho," mutters Anderson, and Donovan giggles, high and shrill. Lestrade looks like a schoolteacher who has just realized that no matter what he does, this student is simply too frighteningly, alienly different and the other children are just too cruel.

Sherlock's eyes dart between them, puzzled and seeking clarification. He's used to his deductions causing discomfort or anger, and John knows that he knows that it is usually because he reveals things people would prefer to keep private. But that can't explain everyone's reaction here because this is about him and John, and it has nothing to do with them. There is color in his cheeks that he can't hide, and he sets his jaw grimly, defiantly.

John would normally be filled with sympathy, but at this moment, he is only furiously embarrassed. He wants to scream at Sherlock (to what effect, he has no idea), but he knows that having it off here like that can only make things worse, and he is too humiliated and angry to think properly.

"I need a walk," he announces, jamming his hands into the pockets of his coat. His instinct is to provide some small kindness before he goes, to tell Sherlock to take a taxi home and they'd talk later, but he quashes it down. He is too mortified to acknowledge in front of everyone that of course he would be going back to 221B, that there would be a 'later,' that somehow, he is in this for life. "I'm going to..." And his voice trails off.

"Yeah, see you soon, John," Lestrade replies, answering too quickly, too desperate to defuse the situation.

John begins to walk away at a brisk pace (deliberately not too fast, but he really can't imagine enduring this for a second longer than he has to) and he hears Donovan's not quite whisper "Guess you _can_ forget your boyfriend's a psycho," (he's meant to hear, he knows it) and his cheeks burn and he keeps walking. He is not there for Sherlock's retort, if there is one (and of course there is one; it's Sherlock Holmes).

The crime scene is farther from Baker Street than John can comfortably walk – a situation exacerbated, he soon realizes, by his abrupt decision to take off in whatever direction he happened to be facing. Since he can't make it back on foot, he knows he'll have to take the tube or a cab, but he is too embarrassed to retreat anytime soon. He could call up Harry and rant at her about his mental flatmate, or get Bill or Mike out to help him pass the time, but he can't imagine explaining to someone else what it is that has him so angry and humiliated, or letting more of the world know about his poor choices and his fucked up life. He considers cooling down over a few drinks, but knows that alcohol is really not going to help the situation.

John spots a coffee shop on the corner and decides to stew there for a while. Because he'd expected to be at a crime scene all day, he's caught without anything to do (and he's hardly going to work on the blog right now), but this place has a distinctly hipster vibe and looks like it should have some reading material lying around. It's actually the kind of place he tends to choose for stakeouts. John likes the reassurance of knowing that there will be books on hand if he runs through everything he's brought to do and Sherlock is still staring out the window, waiting to catch a glimpse of the person with the perfect arm span or the exact shade of cheap hair dye or whatever it is this time.

And John is right; this place is filled with mismatched wicker baskets of used books and, he discovers with a shock of pleasure, old comics. He may be too emotional, too distracted to allow himself to get absorbed in a new story, but the primary-coloured heroics he remembers from his childhood are surprisingly reassuring. He huddles down with a latte and a scone and loses himself in the labyrinthine plots of nefarious villains and the superheroes who thwart them to save the day but never ridicule or terrorize their sidekicks and who, in their secret identities, are actually normal human beings (or at least very human-seeming aliens) and not cold and terrifying machines.

Peter Parker is a scientist who fights crime, but he doesn't steal Doc Oc's tentacles from Evidence and store them in the fridge for Harry Osborn to find. And Bruce Wayne may have inherited money and clout from his parents, but they're dead now and he doesn't have a meddling brother who isthe British government. And John is sure that even while the wartime version of Clark Kent was encouraging readers to "slap a Jap" for war bonds, he never in any of his incarnations expressed the slightest desire to slice Jimmy Olsen open and see how his insides were different from those of Kryptonians.

But John is human, too human, and he feels shitty about storming off and leaving Sherlock there, embarrassed and defenseless and confused, in a situation he was in no way equipped to deal with. He's not looking forward to their inevitable conversation, but he knows what he has to do. John decides to just get a cab home, and he takes the stairs as slowly and quietly as he can, knowing that while he can't stop Sherlock hearing his footsteps, he can count on him to pick up on the sound of his hesitation (though whether that motivates him to behave is an entirely different story).

Sherlock is at his microscope at the table and he doesn't look up when John enters, but that's as usual. His left hand is holding an eyedropper full of a vile-looking red liquid. John takes off his shoes and settles into his chair with his laptop. He hears the occasional hiss from the direction of the kitchen, but it's a familiar noise by now, no longer quite so alarming, and they sit quietly for a while.

Of course Sherlock is the one to break the silence, beginning as if they were already in the middle of a conversation (and in his head, who knew – they may even have been) and plowing ahead full force.

"I don't understand what made you so angry earlier," he remarks as he begins to clean up his experiment. "It's illogical. You'd be dead, after all, so it couldn't matter to you. And you'd hardly be able to protest."

John sighs, resigning himself to this discussion. "It's not exactly something that normal people want to do, Sherlock," he says, already feeling full well the futility of explanation.

"Well, that's clearly not all of it," responds Sherlock. "I make plenty of unconventional requests and it's rare that you react so strongly. Surely you don't expect me to believe you got so angry simply because it's not 'normal'?"

John doesn't know what to say. He can't imagine explaining to Sherlock why it had embarrassed him so much. Doing so would either be useless or cruel (he's not quite sure which), but he simply can't articulate how it made him feel to listen to people make such insinuations about their relationship, to label Sherlock as psychotic because they don't understand him. And he certainly doesn't want to talk about how it makes him feel to know that, even though he _does_ understand Sherlock, he's still this shocked and embarrassed and ended up letting Donovan provoke him into retreating.

He settles for something neutral, simple. "It's just an odd request to make. Especially in front of everyone."

Sherlock folds himself into his chair and looks at John. "So it would have been preferable if I had asked you in private?"

"No, that's not..." John raises his hands to his temples. "It's just not something you talk about in general. Death, I mean. People don't like to be reminded they're going to die."

"Even though it's true?" Sherlock asks, steepling his fingers.

"Even though it's true," John parrots, taking the opportunity to collect his thoughts. "And to see you being so cavalier and matter of fact about it, to see that you have plans for my death in particular, which is something I don't really want to think about..." He shrugs.

"People will talk?" Sherlock's voice is acerbic and his eyebrow rises mockingly. "Emotional detachment is part and parcel of being a sociopath, John. How can you be surprised to find that I am pragmatic about this as well?"

_Pragmatic_. John supposes that's one word for it. He feels frustration beginning to rise. "Great," he says. "Just forget it. I'll just try not to die first and hopefully we won't have to worry about it."

"I will not forget it!" And suddenly Sherlock is shouting, jumping out of his chair. For someone with such disdain for sentiment, John reflects (and not for the first time), his flatmate certainly has a pronounced flair for the dramatic. "There's still something I don't understand. If you fancy yourself my guide to normal human behaviour, then guide me," he sneers. "Surely you're decent enough not to leave me so... _spectacularly ignorant_ when it's well within your power to educate me."

John knows when he's being manipulated but that doesn't stop him feeling badly. "Sherlock, look, it's just–"

Sherlock ignores John's response, moving straight along to what one can only assume is the next topic on his list of questions. "And how can you say it's abnormal to talk about death? People have wills, don't they? Those don't exactly get handed out or assigned; people _do_ talk about what will happen after they die!"

"Wills, yes!" John seizes upon this topic. "A will is a contract that someone draws up with his lawyer, so –" seeing a glimmer of interest in Sherlock's eyes, he backpedals to correct himself, "not that it would have better for you to approach me with, I don't know, legal representation, but the point is that you do it when it's necessary and when you feel ready, and the purpose is to take care of the people you love. And you might choose to tell them about it, like if it's something big like a house or a family heirloom, maybe, but they're hardly going to come around asking if they can have those things once you're gone."

Sherlock's eyes light up with understanding. "Because that would give the impression that the things were more important than the person? That they might kill to get them?"

"Yes!" John responds enthusiastically, pleased that he's getting his point across. "Well, no, not quite so far necessarily, but when people are upset about losing someone they love, they're not usually comforted to know there's material gain in it for them."

"Interesting." Sherlock sits back down and John watches something flicker across his eyes. "Interesting... but absurd nonetheless. John," he says, leaning forward, "You must know that your life is of much greater value to me than," he raises and makes an all-encompassing gesture, "...data. If I implied otherwise, I was greatly remiss and I apologize. It's simply that I recognize the fact that you are mortal and understand that there is nothing I can do about it. Ideally, I will die before you – or maybe we will die together – and all of this will be a moot point, but in the event that I do outlive you, I will have to find a way to make do. And after much consideration, I have determined that this would be the most conducive to my living a productive life."

"Thanks," replies John, still processing all of that. "Thanks. That's... good of you to say... but I don't really see what you mean."

"Really, John. Think," Sherlock says disdainfully. "You already know that I observe you, sometimes at times when you would rather I did not." (John remembers the first time he had awoken to find himself being watched. He had been shocked, heart pounding as he sputtered out half-formed questions, but Sherlock had simply looked at him and said, "Data, John." And John had been too tired, it had all been too much effort, and he managed to go back to sleep, even with those unholy blue eyes fixed upon him, slicing through the darkness.) "Knowing this, what conclusions might you draw?"

"Data?" John asks, incredulous. "You want to learn about me? You want to take me apart to see how I work?"

Sherlock looks pleased. "Very good, John," he crows, and he begins to launch into another speech about how deduction is not a superpower; anyone could do it if only they would _observe_, but John's head is suddenly unbearably heavy and he lowers it, covering his face with one hand and holding out the other to signal Sherlock to stop.

There's a slight buzzing noise in his skull (Sherlock is quite skilled at causing those), but it soon begins to recede and John is conscious of the fact that Sherlock is crouched beside him, concerned.

"Is that really such a surprise?" He sounds mystified but his voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

John sighs. "It shouldn't be," he mutters. He can't find it in himself to look up.

"John, I feel I must reiterate that the value I place on your life is... almost unparalleled. I would greatly prefer for you to stay alive and healthy, if I have any say in the matter."

And John feels a hand on his wrist, awkward and hesitant, skin cool against his own. "Thank you," he manages, and lifts his head to meet Sherlock's eyes, which are bright and alert and looking directly into his own. He takes a deep breath.

"Sherlock, you know that I'm just like anyone else inside. You won't find anything different if you cut me open. You know that."

Sherlock frowns, rocking back on his heels. "Logically, yes, I do. But I find it difficult to believe."

John laughs a little and shrugs. "I'm as ordinary as they come."

"Hardly," Sherlock mumbles, and he sets his jaw. Clearly something is upsetting him, but John can tell that he's not ready to budge and talk about it. And sure enough, Sherlock chooses to deflect by changing the subject. "But you don't understand that desire? You're telling me you wouldn't want to do it for someone... of importance to you?"

John looks at him blankly.

Sherlock sighs and rises to his feet. "Perhaps a concrete example will help. Family? Well, Harry is no good; you'll already know what it was that killed her and it will only make you angry." Sherlock pauses for a second and John is ready to say that he's already feeling a little bit angry, actually, but Sherlock continues on, oblivious.

"Lestrade, then," he says, beginning to pace a little. "If Lestrade were killed."

"Killed?" John repeats. "Killed? No, I can't imagine I'd want to." Sherlock is looking at him quizzically. "When you say 'killed,' it implies a sudden and violent death," he explains. "It would be upsetting to have to do it then. Traumatic for most people."

"So the circumstances of the death make a difference," Sherlock muses. "How novel... and if the cause were unclear?"

"Well, I suppose I'd do it then, yeah. I'd feel I was helping," John responds. Something occurs to him and he runs with it, surprised to find that he might have begun to enjoy this conversation a little. "If I was a... what, mortician? If I was preparing bodies for funerals."

"Embalming," supplies Sherlock, and John nods his thanks.

"If I was embalming someone, then," John continues, "If I could make them look like they used to, it would be a good gesture. A way to show I cared for them."

"Intriguing." Sherlock interrupts abruptly. "Is that how Molly Hooper feels?"

John pauses a moment. "I don't really know," he admits. "Everyone has their own reasons for doing things."

"But they're all so astoundingly similar in the end," Sherlock flops back down in his chair, sounding as if 'astounding' were the exact opposite of what he meant. "But in any case, you do realize that you're still more concerned with the social nicety of making someone _presentable_" (his voice drips with sarcasm that seems incongruous on someone who is usually so impeccably groomed) "for a funeral that they're never even going to see. Would it not be a better marker of affection to do something that makes a difference and help shed light on the circumstances of their death instead?"

"I said I'd do it to help solve a mysterious death, didn't I?" Sherlock nods and waits for him to continue. "But any other kind might be too difficult."

"Like in the case of your sister's alcoholism," Sherlock adds helpfully.

"Like that," John agrees. He takes a measured breath. "Or with Mary," he says very softly. Sherlock falls silent. "I _knew_what killed her, Sherlock. Believe me. It took its time and it was very... clear what it was doing to her." His head feels like it's full of sloshing water, but he maintains eye contact with Sherlock, whose jaw is doing something John's not quite sure he's seen before. Surely he can't be about to express sympathy?

A flicker of something behind Sherlock's eyes lends credence to a thought John wishes he had never had in the first place: if Sherlock normally refrains from mentioning her name, it's not likely to be out of a sudden sense of decorum; Mary simply does not come up because Sherlock forgets that there was a time when John had to make a life without him. Sherlock has the luxury to forget that. John tries his best to quash this idea down every time it skitters around the edge of his consciousness, but it never seems to stay more than half buried. He reminds himself to breathe.

When Sherlock speaks again, his voice is very quiet. "She was your wife," he says. "A person of unrivalled importance." He pauses here, as if waiting to be contradicted, but no objection is forthcoming and he soon moves along. "You didn't feel the need to make an exception... to truly know her?"

John can only shake his head.

Sherlock processes this. "So there is no circumstance in which..."

John manages a no. Something, maybe the sound of his own voice, makes him feel as if he has been set back upon solid ground, and his mind begins to clear a little. They're moving away from that period, from the utter helplessness and remorse of that second great loss, the knowledge that he might not have the strength to pick himself up again. John takes a deep breath.

Sherlock blinks and bobs his head slightly. He looks away and sighs. "Maybe as time passes, you will find yourself reconsidering. But in the meantime, I will try to adjust my expectations – a foolish exercise, really. No matter what I hope for, I can't be disappointed because I'll never know how it pans out." He chuckles as he says this, but when his eyes drift across John's aghast expression, a look of disbelief crosses his face.

"This surprises you too? John, of course I would want you to do the same for me."

"I'd rather not, thank you," John remarks, fighting to keep his tone as level as possible.

"John, I couldn't trust anyone else not to botch it. You're an exceptional doctor, and your time in the military has given you strong nerves. Even if you feel... emotionally affected..." Sherlock is clearly unsure this is the proper term, but he continues nonetheless. "I am sure that you would understand my wishes and do a cleaner job of it than anyone could."

"Your wishes?" John's wants desperately to be talking about almost anything else in the world, but somehow he is unable to stop himself from asking.

Sherlock raises his hand to the crown of his head and taps his forehead twice, quickly, with his index and middle finger. "My brain," he says. "I want it to be examined and preserved for science. It is important for the future of mankind. I could hardly entrust this to someone else."

John would laugh at this characteristic display of hubris, but he suddenly feels very cold. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Please don't ask me to do that." His voice sounds like a strange echo, as if the room is suddenly too big.

"Why?" asks Sherlock, and turns his eyes on John, too bright, too sharp.

"It's just..." At a loss, John shrugs his shoulders. "Beyond my capacity." Strangely, he is not surprised to hear himself echoing Sherlock in this moment.

Sherlock purses his lips. "Your skills as a doctor are certainly more than sufficient," he says.

"My emotional capacity, you genius," John clarifies. He can feel himself becoming defensive already. He is fully conscious of the kind of ridicule he has opened himself up to.

"Think of it as my last request, then," Sherlock says breezily. "Since you'll be fulfilling my wishes, then surely it wouldn't hurt you to perform my autopsy?"

"It hurt me to bury you," John snaps, and falls silent. He knows this is a low blow; he can see it in the shock on Sherlock's face (and if Sherlock says anything about John not _technically_ having buried him, John has half a mind to remedy that fact), but to be completely honest, it's a little too close to the bone for John as well.

"I see," says Sherlock reflectively. "There are not... many things that I can say to defend myself on this subject." He is quiet for another moment. "It is remarkable, though. Your comment was made in anger and is only remotely related to the topic at hand, but it is extraordinarily effective in making me understand your state of mind, thus shutting down my argument. A gem of rhetoric. Well done, John."

John just nods (because what _does_ one say to that?) and they sit in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock leans forward, balancing his elbows on his long thighs to bring his hands together as if in speculative prayer. He stares ponderously into the distance.

"I could appeal to you," he speaks in a measured, careful tone, "to perform my autopsy out of respect for my wishes. And because of the regard you hold for me and the sentimentality that surrounds a dead man's last request, I don't believe you'd refuse, however much it pained you." Sherlock meets John's eyes, and whatever he sees there must affirm this, because he looks away and continues. "But under these terms, if the situation were reversed, I would find myself obligated to refrain from performing your autopsy out of respect for your wishes."

He nods decisively. "I stand by my earlier statement. I will attempt to adjust my expectations and, unless you inform me otherwise, I will operate under the assumption that you are unwilling, and I will allow our investigative partnership to be severed by death, your or mine, regardless of how I feel about the loss of such a valuable source of data."

John is exasperated. "Look, Sherlock," he begins. "That's not what I mean. I've not told you not to do it, right? I just need to understand why you _want_ to."

"Which I've made abundantly clear to you," Sherlock protests.

"No, you haven't!" John finds himself raising his voice. He narrows his eyes and stares directly at Sherlock like a commanding officer, daring him to disobey. "You absolutely cannot expect me to believe that you think cutting me open after I'm dead will give you any special insight about who I am. I know you too well to fall for that."

Sherlock looks away, hating to be caught out like this. His posture is that of a stubborn child. He sits silently, refusing to say anything, to give himself away.

John knows that Sherlock won't be reasoned with. The only option available to him is bargaining.

"Fine," John sighs. "Look, if you can just explain to me why you want to do it, if you have a good reason, I'll let you. I promise."

The ball is firmly in Sherlock's court. He knows this and is none too happy about it. He looks like he wants to flop on the couch and turn his back, hiding his face in the cushions until John goes away. It's interesting to watch this battle play out across his face as he struggles with the terms, his nature refusing to give an inch even though he knows that what John is offering is something he wants too badly. He draws a deep breath and begins to speak.

"You say that you are ordinary, but you most certainly are not. Your behavior defies all logic. I know that I am a horrible flatmate – I never do the hoovering or ... the washing or ..." (Sherlock waves his hand vaguely, dismissively; a third item would be ideal, but he must have deleted all the chores necessary to keep a household running.) "And while you have strenuous objections to my use of the kitchen and the refrigerator, not only do you continue living with me, you also work with me, and treat me as your friend. I make completely unreasonable demands of you, and I habitually disregard your feelings and regularly endanger your life... and yet, you are still here." His voice grows soft and he draws his knees to his chest, looking down at his bare feet.

"No matter how I examine it," he continues, "your choices are completely illogical. So I find myself looking for answers in equally illogical places, resorting to vulgar mysticism in an attempt at explanation."

John looks at Sherlock perched in his chair, the most brilliant man he's ever met, now radiating insecurity and fear with his knees clasped close to his breastbone. And John thinks about their arguments and their jokes and the chases, and the things he's said to Sherlock's headstone but never to his face because everything is different and so difficult. And he remembers how Sherlock's eyes had looked at the crime scene that morning and at the swimming pool and when he was holding that stolen ashtray in the back of the cab, and he watches Sherlock bite his lip and pretend he has not said anything at all.

"Maybe I should get a tattoo," John muses.

Sherlock's head jerks upright and he stares at John, uncomprehending.

"It would say something like 'Sherlock Holmes is utterly brilliant, and he is never dull. He knows how to find a good time, even if my idea of what that is may be very warped... He thinks himself above all sentiment, but I know better. He is totally and completely mad, and he is my best friend... and I will never regret a second of the time I knew him.'" Sherlock seems to be following John's every word with his eyes as if it were the bouncing ball on a karaoke screen. His eyes are wide and he suddenly looks very young.

John smiles at him a bit wanly. "That way you wouldn't have to cut me open to find out."

Sherlock is blinking a bit more than average. John watches his Adam's apple jerk, waiting patiently.

When Sherlock finally does speak, his voice is hushed. "That would be quite a large tattoo," he whispers. "I'm not sure someone your size could find room for it."

"Well, this is important enough that I'd make it fit," John responds, and his smile reaches his eyes this time.

Sherlock returns it, albeit somewhat weakly. "I guess it would save me a lot of effort in the end."

"Why, because you won't have to lay awake all night wondering why I'm fond of you?" teases John.

"'Lie awake,' John," Sherlock corrects. "And that too, I suppose. But I was referring to how I'd no longer have to spend so much time trying to break you and your girlfriends up; a tattoo like that would do a good bit of the work for me."

This makes John laugh, but he has to wonder if Sherlock is aware of how few girlfriends there have been recently. Comments like these haven't decreased in frequency (his dates are another story, though not for lack of opportunity), and sometimes John isn't sure whether the skirt-chasing Three Continents Watson who Sherlock still brings up is an allusion to earlier days or just an illusion they both need to pretend that things were still as they were.

It won't do to linger on such a topic, however, and John knows this. "Just think of all the time you'll have to work on blowing up our flat," he adds light-heartedly. "You might even succeed."

Sherlock's laughter is surprised but genuine. He clearly appreciates being offered an exit to an easier subject. "If I wanted to blow it up, you know I would have succeeded long ago," he responds, grinning. Then, he asks, "Would you like some tea?"

Tea sounds divine and John starts to get up from his chair, but Sherlock gives him a gentle nudge back down and busies himself in the kitchen. John blinks a few times, startled. He reminds himself not to get used to this and picks up his paperback from the table, keeping one ear trained for any unusual noises as he reads. Making tea is nowhere near as complicated as the many experiments Sherlock has conducted on that selfsame worktop, but keeping an eye on his flatmate in the kitchen has proven to be a worthy endeavour in the past. Comforted by the familiar domesticity, he allows his attention to drift and the words to blur before his eyes until he hears the clink of a saucer and feels a cool hand upon his shoulder. The tea is just the way he likes it.

=======================================================================

The waitress has just set the next round down on the table when Lestrade finally brings it up. "So have you two got it sorted yet?" he asks casually. He doesn't specify what.

"More or less," John admits, taking a sip of his lager. He feels comfortable with Lestrade, and God knows the man puts up with enough; he deserves an honest answer. "I'll let him do it, I figure."

To his credit, Lestrade doesn't look particularly surprised. He nods understandingly and looks John in the eye. "I kind of thought that's where you'd land, to be honest." He shuffles the menus under his fingers and his eyes turn serious. "But listen, John," he begins, and his voice trails off awkwardly. "It's just that Sherlock can be a bit..."

There's no adequate word for it, really, so John just nods his understanding and Lestrade continues. "And of course I know you can stand up for yourself, but Sherlock is the way he is, and..." He shrugs. "I guess... you should just let me know if that's not what you want, and I'll stop him. I'll keep him away. Somehow." He adds this last bit hastily, well aware of how unrealistic it sounds.

John gives him a reassuring smile. "It's all right, actually. We talked it over and... I understand why he wants to, now." He doesn't add that he's starting to think he would actually like Sherlock to do it, that he's strangely comforted by the idea of Sherlock taking care of him in that final, intimate way. John trusts Lestrade, but that's not something one shares. "Thank you for offering, though."

Lestrade tilts his glass toward John and nods. "I have to say, I'm a bit relieved," he confesses. "You should have seen the way he was before you came along. You think he's difficult now?" He shakes his head. "I don't want to deal with him like that again."

It's not really something John wants to imagine either. "It's probably for the best," he says calmly. "I think it'll make everything a bit easier, for him and for everyone else, and I don't actually mind, so it's all fine, really. Sorted." John watches Lestrade take a gulp of his beer and suddenly, he feels a little bit wicked. "What we haven't got figured out yet," he says, "is whether I would do his."

Lestrade chokes on his lager. John signals the waitress for some napkins to clean up the mess, and when Lestrade excuses himself to the toilets to clean off his shirt, John smiles to himself and mops up the table.

=======================================================================

After he sees Lestrade safely to the station, John decides to walk home. The night is clear and it's not so cold yet. He stops at a chippie for something to eat on the way back to the flat. The moon and stars are bright and so are the streetlights – bright enough that when he pops a bit of fish into his mouth, he can clearly read that the grease-stained newspaper beneath it reads "FAKE GEN," and suddenly his heart is in his mouth.

He reflects, somewhat bitterly, how funny it is that this still has the power to make him want to wind up and chuck his snack into the river and fall to his knees on the concrete. But things are different now and John is not the type to surrender to his irrational fears. He shuffles the chips a bit to reveal the true headline beneath: "FAKE GENE THERAPY EXPOSED." John feels weirdly tired as the tension rushes out of his body, but he decides to ignore it. He pops another chip into his mouth, savoring the tang of vinegar.

Something about the chill of the night makes everything feel especially bright and clear and vastly improbable. He's glad for the opportunity to walk home slowly, to enjoy the quiet night air while the battlefield sleeps silently beneath the surface. The sky is unshattered crystal calm and everything seems so clear.

Wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers, John reaches into his jacket pocket for his phone. Something about the pureness of this pristine night makes the intrusion of technology seem almost sacrilegious, but in that moment, the mobile is connected to John's heart in a way that he doesn't think Irene Adler would quite understand.

John's thumbs skim across the keypad. "_You must know that there's almost nothing I wouldn't do for you."_He doesn't allow himself to hesitate; he just hits send. He's can't think too much, he just has to let his fingers confess. He pulls up another blank text. "_Just try to stay alive as long as possible, all right? I'll take care of the rest."_

Only a few second pass before Sherlock's response buzzes in his palm. "_Do you promise? SH" _

It's uncharacteristically earnest and it makes John's heart ache a little.

He spells out his answer without thinking, and it's only once he's looked down at the three letters he's typed that he begins to laugh. He's not entirely sure Sherlock will get the joke, and it's not the kind of thing that you say to a mate, not really... but, he reflects, it's not actually so different, is it? He hits send and waits.

_"'I do?' Really, John, people WILL talk. SH" _

This is followed almost immediately by "_Save me half of your kebab; you don't need the whole thing anyway. SH"_

John smiles and writes out. "_Fish and chips, actually."_ He sends it, and follows up right away with "_There's always something_." When he receives an identical text from Sherlock five seconds later, he finds himself grinning down at the screen like a lunatic.

_"Mimicry is the lowest form of humour, but the highest form of flattery. SH"_

_"Get home quickly. It's about to rain and you've left your umbrella here. SH"_

John looks up at the stars again. There's not a cloud in the sky, but he hails the next cab that comes along anyway. "Baker Street, please," he says and he feels that he's still smiling. "221 B."


End file.
